Author's Note: A huge thank-you to the wonderful nodamncatnodamncralde – seriously, check her out, she's wonderful – who beta'd this story for me.
I would love, love, love to hear your opinions. :3
Quick warning – this is Johnlock, and isn't rated mature for no reason. So, don't like, don't read. :)
And now – enjoy.
A Whispered Touch
It all happened so fast.
A small thing Sherlock hadn't calculated, just this one, tiny mistake – and this was the result.
John was lying on the ground, almost unconscious, his face contorted in pain. Sherlock hovered above him, pressing his mobile to his ear and calling an ambulance while trying to keep John from losing consciousness at the same time. After he had ended the call, he crammed his mobile into the pocket of his Belstaff coat with an angry growl and turned back to John whose eyelids still threatened to fall shut.
"The ambulance will be here shortly," he informed his best friend. "If those idiots weren't always short-staffed, one of them would be here already!" Sherlock's face clearly showed how angry he was about the incompetence of the people around him, especially now when it concerned John. He just couldn't lose him! John was his colleague with his detective work, his blogger, his doctor, and most of all – his best friend. He wasn't allowed to die now, even if it looked like it would happen soon. Unsurprisingly, after all, a bomb had just exploded next to him.
Sherlock cursed himself for not anticipating this bomb. The culprit they had chased had not only been a murderer but also a bomber who of course had worn an explosive belt. He detonated himself when John and Sherlock had forced him into a blind lane. Sherlock had been able to hide behind a rubbish skip just in time and wanted to pull John behind him but he failed. The doctor threw himself on the ground and tried to escape the pressure wave this way but that hadn't helped much. The bomb of the culprit exploded, just like the little stone wall behind him. Splinters of bricks were flying through the air, and three hit John's head and back—hurting him badly.
John moaned and jolted Sherlock out of his thoughts. The Consulting Detective framed John's face with his hands and gently moved the doctor's head from one side to the other.
"Hey," he murmured, "John, don't go to sleep. Stay conscious. Please. The paramedics will be here soon, hang in there!"
It wasn't Sherlock's style to be desperate, especially not at this particular octave, but John's condition had him panicking. He couldn't bear to think his doctor dying because of the explosion. But luckily enough he was still alive; barely, but alive. And this was of the utmost importance.
John, however, didn't react to Sherlock's words. He blinked curtly and then frowned as if something had confused him.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was questioning, a bit scared. What was wrong with his colleague? Usually he assured him that he was fine and answered every question Sherlock asked when he was injured. But again there was no reaction. Now it was Sherlock who frowned. He stared at John, tried to read his facial expressions and find out what was wrong. John blinked and stared back. He opened his mouth once but closed it again immediately.
"John, what's wrong? Are you okay? Do you feel any pain?"
Blinking. Frowning. No answer.
Slowly but surely Sherlock started to become frightened. It was an irrational feeling and he hated it, yet he couldn't do anything against either the panic induced quickness of his heartbeat, or his ragged breathing. "John, please, talk to me!"
Nothing.
John raised his arm, pointed to Sherlock's lips and tried to speak. The words sounded oddly slurred, almost uncertain, and his voice was unnaturally loud. "Did you say something?"
Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Can you hear me?" he asked, exaggerating the movement of his mouth and talking especially slowly. He had read that it was easier to lip-read when the volume of speech wasn't increased or decreased, but instead stayed normal.
John stared at Sherlock's mouth in concentration and then shook his head in resignation.
"Damn!" Sherlock let his fist ram onto the ground next to John's shoulder. The explosion hadn't only caused a head wound (he had stopped the bleeding with a makeshift bandage) but because of this extreme pressure, John was now … deaf. It wasn't the tinnitus an explosion usually caused, no. John couldn't understand Sherlock and he wouldn't lie to him. "You idiot," Sherlock cursed himself, tugging at his hair violently and screaming in agony. How could he have been so stupid and forget the bomb? Why hadn't he thought of this? It was his fault that John couldn't hear him anymore and he hated himself for this.
Just then, the siren of an ambulance resounded and turned around the corner soon after. The paramedics rushed towards John and Sherlock, heaving the injured doctor onto a stretcher. One of the medics climbed into the car with him to disinfect the wound and bandage it properly while Sherlock was discussing with the driver whether he was allowed to ride along with John. He was his flatmate after all and more or less the person closest to John. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing he was finally granted permission to sit next to John's stretcher.
During the whole ride to the St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock held John's hand.
Fortunately, John's head wound didn't need to be stitched up and he only required a bandage. All in all, the doctor made off lightly and was feeling much better after some hours of sleep during which Sherlock sat next to his bed.
He still couldn't hear, though.
Sherlock annoyed the nurses and doctors with this topic as often as possible. He demanded they bring John's hearing back, no matter how. They promised him over and over again that they would give their best but most of the time it was just an excuse, a little fib so they could continue their work without being interrupted by him. Somewhen they stopped talking to Sherlock entirely so he had no other option than to sit next to John's bed and hope.
"John, John, John, you can't die, you have to wake up again, please. I'm lost without my blogger, don't you see? You can hate me for bringing you into this condition for all I care but please, please wake up! I couldn't bear it if you had to leave this planet because of me.
It's odd, you know, that I am afraid of Death for the first time in my life. Not necessarily afraid of mine, but yours. I don't want you to leave me, John. I would be… lost without you. Funny, isn't it? The great Sherlock Holmes, lost without the endearing doctor. And yet it's the truth.
You and your nose and your absurd jumpers and your never-ending patience and everything. I would never have thought I'd get into such an addiction. In all the time you've been lying here, something was missing around me, I have to admit that. Your warmth, your closeness. You're my best friend, John, you mustn't go.
You have to explain something to me, you're a doctor after all. I know a lot of diseases and yet I have been having symptoms for a bit that I can't categorise. What does it mean when the heart beats faster, and warmth spreads in your belly? What does it mean when breathing gets harder and gooseflesh spreads over one's body when one sees a special person?
Why does this only happen when I'm with you, why don't I know these things already? Why don't I want to stop feeling like this? Is this normal?
Is it this… thing, a chemical defect?
I can't fight it, can I?
Maybe I don't even want to. I feel the urge to touch you and I don't know why.
Your hand is warm beneath my own, John. Not as warm as I know it. I am worried. Wake up. I need you.
I feel your little stubble although the nurses shave you everyday. I think I will do that tomorrow. It's something intimate, an act of faith, isn't it? The sharp blade so close to the arterial. A life could be ended so easily. I would never do that to you, John.
When you wake up, I will shave you some time, I think. So that I can show you that you can trust me unconditionally. Promised.
Wake up.
Open your eyes. I need to see their blue again, this warmth, this admiration. The life, the joy of being alive, your emotions in them.
I have to feel your hands again when you gently stop me from doing something stupid, from saying something wrong. When you pat my shoulder in a friendly manner. When you squeeze my arm in awe.
I need to hear your voice again that soothes and comforts me even though I don't admit that. That defends me when Anderson starts insulting me once again. That scolds me when I say something a bit not good. That praises and admires me when I'm deducing.
I need you and your confidence.
You are the one who gives me my will to live. You're the reason I don't take drugs anymore, John.
You.
It's always been you and it always will be you. Only you.
Wake up.
Please."
The moment John woke up and looked at Sherlock for the first time was probably one of the worst moments in the life of the Consulting Detective. The happiness about his blogger being more or less well again was dimmed by his frightened, almost panic-stricken look – an expression Sherlock didn't know from John. John still couldn't hear anything. And he knew it. As both doctor and former soldier, John mainly relied on his hearing. It was like eyesight for Sherlock. Hearing was a valuable bodily function that one usually took for granted, but as soon as one couldn't use it anymore, one's world was turned upsidedown.
"Sherlock!" John tried to speak and he succeeded, yet his voice sounded raw and husky and the detective's name passed his lips with a lot of effort, extremely loud and quite slurred.
John's eyes widened even more and he swallowed heavily. "W-what..." he was able to produce but Sherlock silenced him with a gentle finger on his chapped lips, shaking his head. John needed rest and exhaustion as well as fear would have been damaging rather than helping him heal. In his friend's eyes, there still stood little question marks. He didn't know what was wrong with him, where he was and why, and if he would be able to hear ever again. The worst about it, though, was that he couldn't word questions properly without affecting his pronunciation.
Sherlock pushed him back into the pillows gently and whipped out his notebook in which he had written everything about the incident and handed it to John. While the doctor let his gaze roam over Sherlock's fluent script, his brow crinkled in a frown. He looked up, blinked once, twice and gestured a writing motion with his hand. Sherlock handed him a pen and couldn't help but notice John blinking repeatedly.
'He has cried. John cried because he can't hear anymore.'
This realisation hit him with an unexpected force. John who usually was so strong and brave was now looking like a picture of misery – because of completely understandable reasons. Something in Sherlock told him that he wanted to soothe his friend in some way yet he didn't know how. Would John accept a touch now anyway or would he dismiss it as unwanted pity?
While he was still thinking about what to do, John nudged his thigh with the edge of the notebook.
Will I recover?
When will I get out of here?
Sherlock looked up at John whose eyes were watery again. His brave soldier kept a hold of himself, though, and returned his look.
They will let you out in two days. They actually wanted to keep you here for a little longer but I didn't allow them. I can take better care of you than those incompetent morons here.
We don't know yet if you will fully recover. A splinter of the bomb has damaged your cochlear nerve. The doctors say that this is only a temporary injury but they can't be sure. I'm sorry, John. I should have been more careful.
He gave John the book and tented his fingers beneath his chin. He really was horribly sorry for putting John into this situation. If only he had thought a bit more they wouldn't be here now and John wouldn't be deaf.
When he heard a little chuckle, Sherlock looked up in confusion.
John was grinning at him. It was a little weak but genuine. Actually Sherlock was expecting a flash of anger but as always John surprised him by not being angry and simply smiling at him in an amused way.
The important thing is that we're still alive.
We are two nut cases. And I like that. Don't worry.
To emphasise his position, John squeezed Sherlock's hand curtly and nodded at him, smiling. He really wasn't mad at him. He knew Sherlock for years now and they had survived quite a lot – a kidnapping, a SemTex bomb around his torso, lots of beatings and gunfires, and the fake suicide of his flatmate. He knew Sherlock's spleens and he could have moved out on several occasions but he always stayed. He loved danger and needed it, just as he needed Sherlock.
They were a crazy pair but John couldn't have imagined a better life. He wasn't angry at Sherlock, just sad. Disappointed. His hearing had vanished for an apparently indefinite period of time and it still was unknown whether he would regain it. But he wouldn't be John Watson if he didn't look ahead in an upbeat mood. Somewhen, he told himself, he would be able to hear again. And he was sure that Sherlock would help him with that.
They wrote each other little notes in the beginning. They couldn't communicate in any other way apart from tiny gestures and expressions. So they restricted themselves to written correspondence, either with little slips of paper or their mobiles – the latter being preferred by Sherlock.
It became a habit that they were texting each other all day long. While Sherlock consented to do the shopping at Tesco's and actually did, John texted him every minute what exactly should be bought and what should not find its way into the trolley in any case (things like animal ears or similar things. The doctor was fed up with experiments at the moment).
They even texted each other in the evenings – John couldn't watch his favourite shows, he didn't feel like reading most of the time and Sherlock was mainly bored. So one of them would whip out their mobile and start a conversation with the other. Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who made the first step most of the time. After a few weeks they even texted each other when John was already in bed. It was like a bedtime story when he communicated with Sherlock. It helped him to go to sleep for some reason.
John. SH
Yes? JW
And I know it's you, Sherlock. Nobody else would text me at this time of night. Stop writing your initials.
No. SH.
I'm bored. SH
I went upstairs five minutes ago. I haven't even showered yet. And you are already bored?
Yes. SH.
Boring. SH
Showering is boring. SH
It isn't.
By the way – read the book you bought recently and let me shower and go to sleep.
You know as well as I do that you can't sleep now. SH
Anyway, that book isn't interesting for me. I simply needed it for a case to check an alibi. Turned out that you can't cause a wound like the victim's with this book, although the suspect claimed so. SH
Are you really telling me that you bought this outrageously expensive book simply because you wanted to bob somebody on the head with it?
Basically. SH
Jesus.
I will kill you one day, Sherlock Holmes.
Just try. SH
You know I could. I had bad days in the army.
That's your standard excuse, isn't it? SH
Anyway – we both know you would never kill me. SH
Obviously. SH
True. For that you're far too important for me at times. ;)
John turned his mobile off with a smile and snuggled up under the duvet. This text would steal Sherlock's thunder for at least a little while. The consulting detective still wasn't used to it that John expressed his fondness for his best friend, even after all those years they lived together.
Sherlock stared at his mobile as if he had never seen it before. John's text had put him into a state of speechlessness that he wouldn't emerge from any time soon.
Of course he knew that John liked him – even though the reason for that still was a mystery for him. But those expressions of admiration were still something unexpected for Sherlock. An odd feeling came with those messages that was unfamiliar for the detective. A warmth pooling in his belly and spreading through his body, giving him goose bumps wasn't exactly his area.
And yet he couldn't deny that it felt wonderful.
When John was fully recovered – apart from the problems with his ears – Sherlock immediately started dragging him along to every crime scene available. John did understand this; after all Sherlock had neglected his work for the sake of caring for John.
Lestrade was so kind as to bring him some cold case files so Sherlock wouldn't drown in boredom but for that it wasn't necessary to leave the house.
Now that John was fit again, Sherlock of course acted like a little child on Christmas day and whooshed through the streets of London, looking forward to hunting down culprits and examining corpses. Oh, what a life.
John had to admit that he was missing their work. Watching British soap operas or bad American comedy with subtitles on telly day in day out wasn't exactly what he was interested in. So he was happy about the action that now returned to their lived and that he could paint the town red again with Sherlock.
The only thing that worried him, though, was his temporary deafness. How should he answer Sherlock's question concerning medicine if he couldn't hear them? How should he always be up to date?
When they arrived at their first crime scene and Sherlock started whirling around, firing off his deductions at light speed, John could only stand on his own away from everything, watching Sherlock with a sad smile. When Sherlock was busy insulting Anderson, Lestrade came over to John and squeezed his shoulder.
John looked up, nodded, and smiled, then continued to look at Sherlock. He could see how Greg sighed and returned to his co-workers. They used to chat with each other from time to time but now not even a dirty joke was possible.
John was isolated. Without wanting to be.
Plus, the case seemed to be interesting but he simply didn't understand anything. No observation, no clues, nothing. John Watson wasn't somebody who wept easily but he could only watch his passion slipping through his fingers and wasn't able to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. He turned away so nobody would see him – but Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he hadn't noticed.
When all the other police men were already gone again and everything was quiet, Sherlock stepped closer to John and hugged him without saying anything. John pressed close against Sherlock's body and tried to regain his self control but this turned out to be difficult. They stood there for about ten minutes while John's tears moistened Sherlock's scarf.
It hurt the detective to see his blogger like that. He buried his nose in his friend's hairs, his fingers clenching in the doctor's jacket, and mouthed "I'm sorry" against John's forehead.
In the cab that brought them home, Sherlock squeezed John's hand.
John squeezed back.
The incident wasn't mentioned by neither of them but John's tension whenever Lestrade texted or a client sent an email was obvious. Then suddenly, Sherlock had a brilliant idea. He questioned himself why he didn't have this idea earlier and spent several hours in his Mind Palace in the search of the answer, causing John to poke him every second to get him out of his trance.
During the next case, John's mobile buzzed in his coat pocket and when he threw a glance at the display, there was a message from Sherlock with all the relevant facts for this case. Whenever Sherlock had a question or found something, he grabbed his phone and texted John. This way, he could follow the investigation properly.
John smiled. The first time in days.
In the long run, it wouldn't work with the texts and the notes. Sherlock didn't always have the nerves and the time to type everything into his mobile or jot it down so John could follow, especially not on crime scenes.
There had to be another way, and if possible, they needed to find this solution quickly. John shouldn't return to disappointment and feeling useless.
And then, one day, Sherlock had an idea. By coincidence, he gestured to John that he wanted to drink tea, using the international movement for drinking. His hand formed a loose fist so that he could look through it if he wanted to, held up to his mouth and tilted in a way that made it look like he was drinking from a mug.
John obviously understood right away.
And this was the solution they needed: sign language.
Together they decided not to learn the already existing sign language. Instead they developed their own signs, spending a whole day noting down the most important words and transforming them into gestures. They used simple signs that were easy to recognise so that they wouldn't have to learn much and could start using their language immediately.
'Thanks,' John signed when they were done: right hand spread out flat above his heart. Sherlock answered by placing his right hand over John's. 'You're welcome.'
The following smile on both sides didn't require a new hand sign.
Three months passed and Sherlock and John perfected their sign language. They could communicate at crime scenes, without exception. While Sherlock was rattling off his deductions, he simultaneously translated them for John. If he had questions, he silently asked them, always receiving an answer.
Donovan and Anderson laughed about that 'arm-waving' at first until John, beaming widely, gave them the finger. This made them shut up.
They could talk about those two perfectly in their sign language.
Occasionally, John's finger would flip up to his right temple, moving them quickly as if he was brushing off dust. He then connected thumb and the other fingers to a triangle. 'Morons.'
'IQ-decreaser.' Index and middle finger to Sherlock's forehead, sliding down to the tip of his nose.
Sniggering.
'We can't giggle, it's a crime scene!' Right hand to John's chest, left hand extended towards Sherlock. Splaying out his left index finger. Pointing to his mouth. Spreading both hands, palm towards the ground. Crime scene – the sign for that varied from case to case. Sometimes John would form a pistol with his hands, sometimes he made up something else.
'As if that has ever stopped you.' Extending the right hand parallel to Sherlock's body, making a fist, pointing to John.
Louder giggling.
At home, Sherlock and John used both their language and texts. The latter usually was more efficient thanks to Sherlock's quick typing. However, John did notice after a while that Sherlock seemed to be annoyed sometimes. Obviously the communication with their hands needed time as well, and Sherlock couldn't examine something and 'talk' to John at the same time. Thus he lost precious time he could have used twice to catch a culprit. Had he not talked to John, he would have caught him.
At least that was what John thought. Sherlock, though, was more than happy with their solution. He could talk to John; they had something connecting them. But he never told John. And therefore, John soon felt as useless as some months before.
So he came to a decision.
Lestrade called. We have a case. SH
Sherlock looked at John expectantly but he just swallowed heavily. His fingers hovered above the keys of his mobile for a bit until he finally settled on an answer.
I can't. You go alone, and say hi to Greg from me.
What do you mean, you can't? SH
The detective's brow furrowed in a frown. John usually insisted on accompanying him to crime scenes and even his missing hearing hadn't stopped the two of them from catching several culprits.
But John had a reason for declining.
I still have a lot to do around here. We pretty much neglected the household.
Mrs Hudson can do that. SH
She's not our housekeeper, Sherlock.
No, honestly, you can go. I prefer being alone while cleaning, anyway.
You usually want to come with me. SH
And you usually never argue with me. Come on, shoo. Write down everything for me afterwards, okay? Hope you have fun!
John faked a smile and beamed at Sherlock who had just read the text, frowning again but then grabbing his coat and rushing out of the door.
\When it fell shut, John let out a deep sigh and slumped into a chair.
Of course he didn't really have anything to do in the household; he simply wanted what was best for Sherlock and if that meant to make up excuses for not going to crime scenes he would happily do that. He didn't want to slow Sherlock's thoughts down. His smile was partly genuine, anyway, because Sherlock would be able to continue with his beloved work without John being a burden. However, he carried his smile around with him all the time anyway.
But underneath this happy façade, John Watson wasn't well at all. Several months had gone by and he still couldn't hear anything. He was extremely restricted because of that – working in the clinic again was impossible, and he couldn't help Sherlock with cases because he didn't hear what was going on, thus becoming a useless millstone around the Consulting Detective's neck. Though they had their sign language, communication still took too much time. When John had a question, Sherlock would of course answer it, but because he always talked so eloquently and thorough, the simple explanation of the cause of death took ten minutes. Ten minutes that Sherlock could have spent deducing.
John simply felt worthless without his hearing.
Every once in a while, however, he heard a little whistling sound, similar to the sounds when someone was suffering from tinnitus. His heartbeat accelerated whenever that happened. Usually, he ran downstairs to Sherlock to tell him about that but as soon as he gestured toward his ears, the sound vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The pitying look on Sherlock's face John never saw, already turning and running upstairs into his room, fighting back his tears.
He had given up the hope that he would ever regain his hearing.
He missed hearing the noises of his beloved London, the cars, the people, the birds. But most of all he missed the talks with Sherlock's, his deep baritone that usually pierced John's marrow and bone – and his violin playing.
The Consulting Detective was able to elicit the most beautiful melodies out of his violin and John gloomily remembered how much he had enjoyed them. Whenever he suffered from a nightmare, right at the beginning of their friendship, Sherlock started playing Tschaikowski and Bach in the middle of the night, John's favourite composers. The doctor was fascinated by Sherlock's own compositions as well, closing his eyes enraptured when crescendo and decrescendo joined hands, transitioning into one another and forming the melody – when accelerandi and ritartandi controlled John's heartbeat, and when thirds, sixths and octaves charmed and fascinated him.
But it was quiet around John and he noticed how seldom Sherlock took his violin whenever John was present. John didn't know whether the detective played at all anymore. And somehow he felt responsible for that.
It was on a day late in August when it happened. Both men were spending a quiet evening at 221B Baker Street. John was reading a book while Sherlock was absorbed in the paper. As always, there was quietness.
"You hardly play your violin anymore," John's voice suddenly resonated from a corner. The words were still slurred but it got better.
Sherlock looked up and fixed John with his gaze for a while. Then he put down the paper and held up his hands to answer in their sign language.
His hand carried out a straight line in the air, thus causing John to curve his right hand. 'Why not?'
Sherlock put his hands together, palms up, then bent his fingers upwards as well, shaking his head. 'I can't stand to see you looking sad.'
John mouthed a sad "Oh".
'You want to hear it, don't you? And you are disappointed because you can't,' Sherlock said with his hands and John nodded resignedly. He probably felt even more useless than back when he still had his cane, and apparently he had accepted that. Something about John's sad attitude made Sherlock's chest clench painfully.
The Consulting Detective got up, slowly walking towards John. He put a gentle hand on his shoulder and when his blogger looked up, he said "Come with me". John couldn't hear him and yet he understood. A smile tugged at John's lips when he saw John's confused expression.
Finally, he took Sherlock's hand and followed him to the window.
Sherlock told him to stop and wait, then went to fetch his violin case. He carefully took the precious instrument out of its case and returned to John who looked at him with wide eyes. Sherlock handed him the bow and he took it, frowning.
'Stand behind me,' Sherlock signed in their sign language and John complied. He stood behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the detective's thin waist, resting his head against Sherlock's back. The way they stood there together, it almost resembled a hug. The already small personal space between them had shrunk even more after the explosion and was now barely there at all. John still depended on Sherlock although his eyesight was functioning perfectly well. Touches had become regular between them, and if one hand touched the other a bit longer than necessary, neither commented.
Gently, Sherlock took his friend's left hand and guided his fingertips to the neck of the violin, shortly above the corpus. He put slight pressure on them to show John that he should keep them there. A slight nod against his back made it clear that John had understood. John's right hand was still resting on Sherlock's belly, clutching the bow. Sherlock took it and raised it, grabbing the bow himself and putting it on the strings. He then turned his head to one side so John could see his mouth: "Try to feel the music." From the corner of his eyes he saw how the doctor blinked in confusion but then nodded.
Sherlock started playing a piece he had composed himself – the one that John had loved so much when he played it to him for the first time. John curtly shifted behind him, an unmistakable sign that he recognised this piece. Unconsciously, John pressed closer to Sherlock to feel the music better. Sherlock's heartbeat quickened.
The music transported them to heights they could never have reached on their own. To stand so close and trusting with each other was something they had never imagined. Sherlock who ignored feelings, and John who knew how Sherlock thought about this – but here they were, body to body, heart to heart. It just felt so right. No pigeonholing, no labelling, no problems – just feelings between them. Even if John had tried to ignore it up until now – he couldn't suppress it anymore. Sherlock meant so much to him, so incredibly much, and he knew his heart belonged to the detective.
John felt the music flowing through his fingers and into his veins, spreading through his body and massing in his heart – filling it with warmth and causing John to feel so overwhelmed that he had to let go of the bow, clutching at Sherlock's hip. Sherlock paused for a moment but continued playing, slower this time but still with so many emotions he had stored for months, years, decades.
John's heart was still beating fast in his chest when he raised to the tip of his toes, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's neck. The detective shivered reflexively and leant back against John's chest. He had stopped playing.
John kissed him again and noticed Sherlock swallowing heavily. The detective took his violin and bow into one hand and turned around without escaping John's embrace. He wrapped his arms around the doctor's shoulders and together they held each other, both overwhelmed by the rush of emotions running through them.
John, who knew about his feelings towards Sherlock and still hated himself for being useless and deaf.
Sherlock, who was struggling against physical intimacy like a cat against water, whose heart was racing while holding John in his arms like this, who continuously asked himself whether he would always be of importance to the doctor.
After a while the embrace dissolved on its own, both taking a step back. Sherlock stared at the ground. There was nothing to say against a quick hug in a friendship – but this hadn't been what good friends do, not so close, not so passionate, not so long.
That this was a significant step in their friendship – maybe even an opened door to something new, beautiful – they both knew. And both didn't quite know how to react to that.
When Sherlock looked up again, John was frowning. Sherlock placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and asked him with his gaze what was wrong.
'Why?' John signed with his hands, his eyes helplessly looking at Sherlock.
'Why what?' Sherlock signed, frowning. He didn't quite understand what John wanted to hear, what he was asking. The doctor had learnt from him quite a bit and occasionally talked in riddles. It confused Sherlock. Usually, John immediately explained what he meant – but this time he just sighed and let his shoulders go slack. His gaze roamed to the floor, and he bit his lip nervously.
"John?" Sherlock squeezed his flatmate's shoulder but was ignored. John got up, looking straight ahead, and slowly left the living room. He ascended the stairs, trailing his right leg behind him – had his psychosomatic limp returned? Sherlock stood in the room, violin in his hand, gazing after John. He didn't know what to do. Would it be useful to follow his friend and try to get some information out of him? Would John prefer to be left alone?
The door to John's room fell shut, the key was turned in the lock. A more than distinct sign that John didn't want company right now.
Sherlock sighed and touched the bow to the strings again after a bit. What was wrong with his flatmate? A sad melody floated through the rooms of 221B Baker Street. It went through the walls, dancing at the ceilings, playing with the curtains and bore it's way into Sherlock's heart. Melancholia.
John. SH
John. SH
JOHN. SH
John, please.
Why do you put up with all of this?
What do you mean by "all of this"? SH
Me. My uselessness. My whining.
You're not useless, John, what makes you think that? SH
I'm an invalid, Sherlock, and you get to see that every single day. When you take a case, you hurry so that you can come home and care for my cripple self. You have no passion for your job anymore, and just because of me.
John. SH
Stop this. SH
It doesn't annoy me in the slightest. SH
Yes, it does, and we both know that. You hardly play the violin anymore because you consider my feelings. You barely work together with Lestrade anymore because you consider my feelings. I can't accompany you to crime scenes anymore because it's way too dangerous to run about with a deaf guy like me.
I said stop it. Pitying yourself doesn't suit you. SH
You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't whine that much.
Good night, Sherlock.
Sherlock's mobile stayed quiet. John didn't write again.
He assumed he had hurt John with his last text. In retrospect, it really had been a bit not good. Sherlock had wanted to write something else entirely.
John, I'm sorry. I know how hard that must be for you. SH
No answer. That was to be expected.
Sherlock heard the ding from upstairs, the noise announcing a text on John's mobile. He heard John turning in his bed. Obviously he now read the message – and then the phone was put back onto the night stand.
Sherlock couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment in his chest.
He knew he had to do something, anything. So he picked up his mobile again.
John. SH
I am apologising in advance for everything I am going to write. SH
Actually, I shouldn't. SH
I understand that I have to open up to you in order to show you that you are not useless. SH
John, you are my best friend. You understand me and my eccentric behaviours, my experiments, my need for adrenaline. SH
You are there for me, no matter how terrible I act. SH
You support me with everything, as well as you can, and you have become essential to my work. SH
You are vital to it even when you can't hear me. SH
Just think, we have developed our own language. SH
We understand each other without words – isn't that what people find so romantic? Isn't that what everyone tries to get and sometimes need years in order to achieve? SH
We have been understanding each other without words from the day we met. SH
What does this make us? SH
Are we special? SH
We are superior to anyone else, anyway. SH
We are and we always will be. Just the two of us. SH
I need you, John, at all times, with all faults and spleens – and you most definitely don't have many. SH
I'm nothing without you, and if you don't see this then I have yet to teach you a lot of things. SH
But it is so obvious that even a moron like Anderson can see it. SH
What did Mrs Hudson say to me not too long ago? She said I looked at you like you were my world. SH
You are, John. SH
You are my world, you are my life. SH
I know I sound horribly sentimental. SH
But I can't express my feelings in a different way. SH
I know I've said love can be found on the losing side. SH
But I gladly lose when I win you at the same time. SH
I love you the way your are, John. SH
I love you.
Come upstairs.
When John finally answered after what seemed to be an eternity, Sherlock almost dropped his mobile—startled by the ring tone. He needed a bit to compose himself, especially after the confession he had just made. It cost him an incredible amount of effort to find the bravery for such a feat. He, the emotionless Sherlock—love is a chemical defect—Holmes.
He slowly and thoughtfully climbed the stairs to John's room. As soon as he entered through the door, he'd walk across a thin rope. It would either break and destroy his friendship with John, or it would bring him into a world he had never experienced before. A world full of love and affection, full of happiness and hope.
Sherlock hesitantly opened the door.
The light in John's room was dimmed and the doctor knelt on the bed. With one hand he reached out for Sherlock, a silent Thank-You for the texts. He clutched his mobile with his other hand.
He had been crying.
Sherlock took his hand and swallowed once before he knelt on the bed as well and locked eyes with John. He'd said they understood each other without words – now it was time to prove that.
John put the mobile away and took Sherlock's other hand, leaning forward and touching his brow to Sherlock's. He closed his eyes while the detective observed him. This quiescent, this togetherness, this intimacy.
Happiness.
Pure happiness.
"Sherlock…," John whispered indistinctly after a while and blinked.
"John," Sherlock breathed, knowing that John couldn't hear him but his breath on the doctor's neck was enough to make him shiver.
John was the one who finally grasped the nettle. He leaned forward a bit, his knees now completely touching Sherlock's. Their hands were still locked, finger pressed to finger. John tilted his head a bit to the side and licked his lips nervously. Sherlock's pupils dilated in a way that took John's breath away, his eyes wandered down to John's mouth, and the detective swallowed heavily.
It was then that it dawned on John that this was something completely new for Sherlock. He blinked
'Is this your first kiss?' John's hand signed in the air. Sherlock nodded curtly, nervously. John observed how the muscles in his jaw worked and had to smile involuntarily. He had never been someone's first kiss and it was an even greater honour for him to be Sherlock's first. A fleeting brush of lips – it was supposed to be wonderful for Sherlock, John decided. Even if he was useless otherwise, this should prove to Sherlock that John was good for him—that he had a reason to exist.
John knew he had to give Sherlock time, he who had never had physical contact to anybody. He would give him time to learn and Sherlock would learn, he knew that.
'Do you want this? Do you want us?' John's hands trembled in the air when he asked this question and he had to swallow when Sherlock hesitated, his lips forming a thin line. John went through various plans of escape in his head should Sherlock's answer be negative. Should he move to escape the awkward atmosphere that would doubtlessly come? Should he stay and act as if this talk had never taken place?
Slowly, John retreated a bit, turning towards the door. His hands sank back to his body and he was about to stretch his legs and put them on the floor when warm fingers touched his, pulling him back into his former position.
"Stay." Sherlock whispered so quietly that even someone with perfect hearing would have had difficulty understanding. But John, wonderful loyal John, understood anyway. A little smile tugged at his lips and he reflexively shifted closer to Sherlock who was becoming increasingly nervous.
"Stay," Sherlock repeated and swallowed again, trying to blink away his insecurity. This was unfamiliar territory to him. For the first time in his life he didn't quite know what to do. Of course he knew about the theoretical aspects but this, John – everything was completely different.
The doctor just smiled and gently withdrew his hand from Sherlock's grip, cupping Sherlock's cheek and softly tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. He wanted to make him feel safe and secure without restricting or overwhelming him.
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered before they closed and he leaned into the touch, almost rubbing his cheek on John's hand. This man in front of him had never had physical intimacy, probably not even as a child, John realised. It hurt him to see this and strengthened him in wanting to use this opportunity to show Sherlock how wonderful endearments could be.
"Are you okay?" John asked without a sound by just forming the words with his lips. Sherlock nodded once, hesitantly, then once again with a bit more certainty, grabbing John's wrist with his free hand. His thumb wandered to the pulse that was beating quickly under John's skin. Sherlock's own pulse mixed with John's, evidence of them being alive, of this being real.
John didn't know how much time had passed during which they sat opposite the other like this, touching only at their knees and the wrist. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. Time didn't matter. What counted was Sherlock.
When John leant forward again, Sherlock mirrored him, approaching John's head tentatively while his eyes flickered between John's eyes and his lips. Their noses gently touched, they felt the breath of the other on their lips. Nobody took the first step, however, so they just sat there, eyes locked in an exchange of fears and hopes.
John knew Sherlock needed this quiet moment to collect himself and he was willing to give. He nudged Sherlock's nose gently with his own and let his hand fall from Sherlock's cheek to his neck, carding his fingers through the soft little curls at his nape. He touched his brow to Sherlock's again to have a third point of contact and to acquaint Sherlock slowly, softly and slowly, with touches. Sherlock's breath grew heavier and he closed his eyes for a short moment, before opening them again and looking at John. He looked so young, so vulnerable. He was starting to open up to John, completely committing himself to him, and this made John's heart beat faster. He smiled one last time before closing the little gap between them, slowly, slowly, and brushed his lips across Sherlock's.
John's eyes fluttered shut at the first touching of his lips against Sherlock's, a shiver ran through his body. He felt how Sherlock inhaled sharply and didn't breathe out again, holding his breath. He probably didn't even do that consciously, simply because he was nervous. So John started breathing carefully through his nose to show Sherlock that everything was fine.
Sherlock inhaled when John exhaled, his hand wandering from John's wrist to his jumper and clutching. The kiss was shy and soft, almost chaste and yet Sherlock was as nervous and uncertain as never before. Their hands were still intertwined although John was sure that he was stabilising Sherlock more than the other way round.
The fingers in his jumper tensed, then relaxed, but Sherlock's breathing was still a conscious effort. And yet John noticed how much Sherlock paid attention to everything: the texture of his lips, the movement of his pupils behind his closed eyes.
Their lips touched with certainty but barely moved, mouths closed. The only contact points were their lips, their knees, their hands, John's hand on Sherlock's neck that gently threaded through the curls, and Sherlock's hand in John's jumper. The former noticed the pressure of John's fingers sometimes increasing, sometimes lessening, always soft and gentle.
Their kiss continued to keep going although it often seemed like it would end. John or Sherlock would withdraw a bit but when that happened, the other was pushing forward again, both reluctant to end this kiss, their very first.
And then, all of a sudden, Sherlock tilted his head a little more to the side and John mirrored him and now their first kiss changed from gently to familiar, it became more intimate, personal. Their lips parted and Sherlock started to lead the kiss, and John let him. Sherlock needed control and self-confidence more than he did. The smooth inner surface of Sherlock's lips brushed John's and he answered in the same way. Pressure, less pressure, another tilting of John's head, and their lips clasped the other's so Sherlock had the opportunity to bite John's lower lip softly, nipping experimentally at it. This brought a smile to John's face.
After Sherlock released him, John straightened a bit and did the same, playing with Sherlock's lips until he relaxed, truly relaxed, heaving a contented sigh. His hand left John's jumper, looking for a new place. This time he cupped John's face and pulled him closer. He let his hand wander lower to John's neck, taking his pulse and feeling how ecstatically John's heart was beating. That this was because of him, Sherlock, was almost too good to be true for the Consulting Detective.
Their lips parted for a short time when they both had to break apart for air, but immediately met again, and it still felt like their first kiss without having ever been interrupted.
John realised that he didn't want to be somewhere else, just here with Sherlock, and there was nothing in the world that could have stopped him from kissing this man. He was happy and hoped that Sherlock felt the same way.
When the kiss finally did end, Sherlock increased the pressure on John's neck, keeping him close. He didn't want to lose the warmth around them, didn't want the moment to end.
"John," he whispered, voice husky, eyes closed.
John smiled softly and whispered "Sherlock". He would have loved to hear his flatmate's voice but it wasn't possible.
And then Sherlock's mouth was on his again, always soft but a bit more passionate this time. Sherlock almost kissed him with his whole body. Sherlock's hand that used to clutch John's hand, eased its grip and wrapped around the doctor's hips while the other wandered down to his chest and gently pushed him backwards.
John immediately reacted, stretched his legs and let himself fall backwards into the pillows, hands roaming over Sherlock's torso, his neck, his sides, just to return to his hair, playing with the curls. Sherlock lowered himself a bit, chest touching John's, his legs framing the doctor's.
And then John felt Sherlock's tongue on his lips, hesitantly feeling its way only to quickly disappear in Sherlock's mouth again.
John smiled against Sherlock's lips and let his tongue dart forward, smoothing over Sherlock's bottom lip and applying pressure to Sherlock's mouth that immediately opened. Softly, John let his tongue slide in, looking for Sherlock's and gently nudging it.
Sherlock curtly tensed in John's arms but relaxed eventually, playing with John's tongue.
John knew that Sherlock was currently collecting all the information he could gather, and he gave him this time. Plus, he quite liked to be kissed so thoroughly.
Sherlock released him, withdrew his tongue, and kissed John's closed lips. John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock who was blushing, lips reddened and moist and kiss-swollen.
John's hands signed a 'wow' and Sherlock smiled shyly, and then John pulled him back down into another kiss.
His hands wandered from Sherlock's shoulder blades over his back to the seam of his shirt almost by themselves. John questioningly tugged at it and got a nod as an answer. Slowly he pulled the shirt out of Sherlock's trousers and started to unbutton it. Sherlock's breathing quickened by the second and John immediately reacted.
Gently, he rolled Sherlock and himself over so that he was hovering above Sherlock, kissing him on the forehead. "Trust me," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded.
John kissed Sherlock's brow, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. He kissed him right below the ear, eliciting a soft moan. He kissed his jaw, let his lips trail along Sherlock's neck, nipped at his earlobe, turned to his collar bones.
His hands roamed over Sherlock's chest, slow and exploring, caressing him, pushing the shirt off his body. John pushed it over his shoulders, kissed the newly freed skin, every single inch. His fingers explored every dip, every muscle, every scar. Beneath him, Sherlock shivered due to all the new sensations.
John lowered his mouth to Sherlock's nipple, noticing how sensitive the detective was, gently caressing it and eliciting another moan out of him. He couldn't hear it but he felt it.
His gaze didn't leave Sherlock's face the entire time, ready to stop should it become too much for the detective. But there were no signs for that at the moment, on the contrary.
With a kiss to Sherlock's navel, John straightened up and shifted backwards on the bed. He knelt between Sherlock's spread legs, the toes of his bare feet already curling, his usually pale skin rosy, and his chest heaving with a quick rhythm. John smiled, leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "You're beautiful." He hoped it hadn't come out blurry.
Then he leaned back and kissed Sherlock's ankle, his soles, and his ankles again. He deliberately left Sherlock's trousers on, pressing kisses through the material on his calves, the hollows of his knees, his thighs. He ran his hands over Sherlock's legs with feather-light touches, noticing how his fingers tensed and relaxed in pleasure on the bed sheet.
He explored Sherlock's legs inch for inch and when he reached his hips, he straightened again and gently kissed him. Sherlock looked at him and swallowed once, twice, before he formed "Don't stop" with his mouth. John smiled again and pulled his jumper over his head. Sherlock's hands roamed over his chest in the meantime, cheekily unbuttoned the shirt he was still wearing.
Soon John's torso was bare as well and he lay down upon Sherlock, chest to chest, heated skin to heated skin. They shared another loving kiss before John let his hands wander deeper, teasingly tickling Sherlock's sides and laughing at how adorable a giggling Sherlock was, and then grabbed the hem of his trousers.
He slowly pulled down the zip and opened the button, gently pulling the trousers off Sherlock. The detective was now breathing harder, a writhing mess beneath John. He deliberately ignored Sherlock's middle, not wanting to rush this, wanting to show Sherlock what it meant to be loved.
Before he could lean down and pepper Sherlock's body with more kisses, however, Sherlock reached out for John's jeans, tugging at them questioningly and John understood. He quickly stepped out of his jeans and let Sherlock explore his body. His hands mapped everything. John took this time to kiss and caress Sherlock as well, pleasuring and fondling him.
He didn't know how long this took and he couldn't be bothered to care. It was wonderful, it was perfect, and he could spend the rest of his life cuddling with Sherlock.
Eventually, Sherlock let John take control again, his arousal very visible when John let his gaze roam over him. Sherlock was shy and John didn't want him to feel uncomfortable at this next step. He kissed him on the mouth, intertwining one hand with Sherlock's while pulling his pants off and doing the same to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he breathed heavily into John's mouth, tugging his lips over John's without really applying pressure. He was too distracted by all the sensations pouring down on him.
Both men were naked, pressed close together and John didn't let the kiss come to an end. Sherlock's free hand had found his back, wandered over it, sometimes clutching at it. Then John broke the kiss, smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, letting his hands wander deeper, his mouth following them. John's lips never stopped moving – soft kisses that made Sherlock moan in pleasure and gentle caresses of his tongue that made him gasp and arch.
John's lips on Sherlock's middle between his legs almost drove him over the edge. His breathing, his heart beat, everything was moving too fast to be possible. John's tongue pleasured him, John's lips closed around him as if they were made for this. His hand, which he locked with Sherlock's again, gently caressed the soft skin between thumb and wrist. Sherlock shivered, trembled, moaned, cried and enjoyed. John was perfect. John was brilliant. John was his. Oh, he loved him, and how he loved him.
Just before Sherlock tripped over the edge, John let go of him, causing an almost frustrated whine and a look that resembled one of a lost puppy. John gently threaded his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls, kissed the tip of his nose and positioned himself so that they were pressed together from head to toe.
Sherlock understood, almost laughed, and intertwined his hand with John's that was resting between their bodies. John's hand wrapped around them, starting to move up and down gently, and he kissed Sherlock again. Sherlock's pupils were huge, his irises barely visible.
The detective felt so much in this moment – happiness, joy, passion, pleasure, arousal and love. Especially love.
John was so gentle and tender, he felt safe in his arms because he knew he could trust him. John would never hurt him.
A pleasing pressure pooled in Sherlock's groin so that he wasn't able to kiss John back anymore. John increased the pace between their bodies, swiping their thumbs over their tips and peppering Sherlock's temple with kisses until Sherlock was reduced to a trembling mess in his arms, barely able to form a coherent thought.
With a last thrust of his hips, a wave of pleasure crashed over them – and struck.
Sherlock spent this night in John's bed.
They went to sleep in a tight embrace, content and happy.
"I love you," Sherlock repeated with big eyes, as if he still couldn't believe it. John had kissed him. That he loved Sherlock as well, he demonstrated with kisses, touches.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was completely, fully happy.
The next morning, Sherlock woke in an empty bed. He could hear the sound of rushing water from next door – the bathroom. John was most likely going to return to bed. Indeed the door opened shortly after and he emerged, grinning when he saw Sherlock blinking at him.
"Morning," he greeted him and kissed him softly on the forehead. He then crawled over him to his side and turned so they could face each other.
"Morning," Sherlock replied sleepily and yawned. "Dunno why 'm so tired," he added mumbling.
"There you have the effect of cuddling with me. I'll make you human."
Sherlock giggled and yawned again.
Then he sat up with a start and stared at John.
John just blinked confused. "That was a joke, Sherlock, I know you're -" He interrupted himself. Touched his ears. Looked at Sherlock. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
"Sh-Sherlock?" Shock. Surprise.
"John!"
Relief.
"Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod!" John sat up as well, staring at Sherlock and pointing at his ears over and over again. "I can hear. I can hear again!"
"So it really was just temporary," Sherlock stated and cursed himself for saying the obvious. But John didn't care. He didn't even care why he could hear again (most likely the cochlear nerve had recovered from the concussion) – the only thing that counted was that he could hear again.
He pulled Sherlock into a hug and kissed him on the mouth. Sherlock cupped his neck and pulled him down into the pillows.
"I love you, John," he said with a smirk. Finally, the doctor could hear it.
John smiled back. "I love you, too."
Then John's smile became a wicked grin, and with a "And now I can finally hear what kind of noises come from your gorgeous mouth" he yanked off Sherlock's pyjama pants and pulled the blanket over the two of them.
Oh, and what beautiful sounds came from Sherlock's mouth…
~fin